Book of revelation 6 2,emergency planning college course,my favorite tv program national geographic - For Begninners

The Hydraulic Press channel is one of those examples of what happens when engineers have access to industrial equipment and too much time on their hands (see the Slingshot channel for another example). The operator of that channel has become famous in certain circles by crushing various mundane objects (such as another  press, a Barbie, etc), but the press almost met its match in its latest video when it was tasked with crushing an English-Finnish dictionary. The book was successfully crushed, but before it died it exploded and took out both cameras recording the event. Recent CommentsChristi Caughey on Amazon Now Demanding That You Update Your (Very Old) KindleI received the "warning," and di and it was awful!
Please Donate or SubscribeThis blog is largely funded by advertising and affiliate fees, but donations will always be gratefully accepted. Out of that insatiable hunger for a meaningful spiritual life, UU draws on a diversity of sources ? from science and art, to religious and philosophical traditions from around the globe, to the direct experiences of the earth and its mysteries through the sensuous engagement of our own bodies.This crazy jumble of traditions and perspectives suits the poet in me just fine.
Nate Hoffelde you were right that it was simply aFjtorres on Machine Supply is a Vending Machine Which Sells BooksCuration = "buy what I tell you to buy instead of what you really want". I revel in the potential for serendipity, the discovery to be found in weird juxtaposition. Steve Prior on Machine Supply is a Vending Machine Which Sells BooksThe two comments that bemused me were, "Automating stock control - when a book is bought it sends a tweet"M. Nate Hoffelder on Machine Supply is a Vending Machine Which Sells BooksI didn't get the kiosk in Japan, but I did find the source for the other two. For the past few weeks, I’ve been following along with the #UULent daily words for contemplation, allowing them to swirl and clash and mingle and bounce off of my Pagan practice.
I start each morning with a quote or two on the day’s theme, not trying to force any particular meaning but allowing the words to settle and speak to me as I craft a simple daily altar on the windowsill by my desk. I give my inner artist, nun and thinker space to explore, to sit together and enjoy a cup of tea instead of pitting them against each other to see which is strongest, which is best. Sometimes I find myself in an open field, holding in my hands a bowl full of salt that, once spilled, is tossed into the air in unlikely spirals carried on the shrill winds and becomes a suspended sea of white feather down which settles gently to cover the earth like a late spring snow. I had a migraine that’d been haunting me for the past few days, and which had swelled overnight into a full-blown demon-possession (albeit a rather polite, self-deprecating kind of demon). And on top of everything I had very little time, because of an appointment this morning that had me rushing to pull something together before I left the house.So I rooted through my various little treasure chests of altar items, pulling out pieces that made me smile ? an acorn, a few polished stones, a twisted twig, a feather or two, a little carving of a frog, my prayer beads ending in an amber sun.

I kept arranging and rearranging, bit by bit whittling away at the items until only a few were left ? but nothing felt right. Not the clutter of little trinkets that made me happy, but the simplicity of this unintended arrangement that reached suddenly out of sleep and shook me awake to an old memory of inarticulate wonder. What arrives on blue jay wings.I think of fire and water as the primordial polarity of my spiritual practice. Milne, Winnie-the-PoohThere are some days when I feel I must have a Very Small Heart indeed. Days when I manage to be only imperfectly grateful.Days when the only way I know how to be grateful is to be restless and dissatisfied. I get angry at myself for having the happy childhood, the supportive partner, the brilliant stepkids, the roof over my head, the food on my plate. A childhood that I spent joyfully nurturing my own passions and fancies when I should have been learning how to be responsible and hard-working and better at making other people happy.
What good is all this beauty, all this love and support, if I can’t help other people be happy?But then there it is again, lurking in the quiet spaces, hiding just beneath the surface of simple moments and small treasures ? the unrelenting grip of gratitude. No matter how hard I work to give it away, the moment I stop to breathe it washes over me again.
Sometimes I think, in all this world of longing and striving, gratitude is the one thing you cannot dig up and divvy out.It helps to think of gratitude as a goddess. On those days, maybe the best I can do is honor her with offerings, and hope that she will weave her way like smoke and seawater into the hearts of those who need her most. YeatsLast night I had a dream that you blamed the cat for knocking the statue of my god off the bookshelf, its head smashed in, its limbs a shattered wreck of dust on the floor. But the shelf was not that high, I said, and my gods have fallen so many times before unharmed. The needle glinted each time I shoved it into the heavy fabric of heaven, and each glint became a star. But the thread was like an invisible wind darting back and forth across the horizon ? sometimes loose, lazy and useless ? sometimes so tight it snapped and I had to start again.Last night I had a dream that I was eating apples.
When I stood up to go, you could hear the seeds rattling in the empty chambers of my heart.

It can be incredibly discouraging to pour words into the silence over and over again, and get nothing back except the work itself and what it does to you. Maybe I’m just too in love with words, but this always seemed exceedingly silly to me.
Music is just a movement, a way of making the noise of our bodies beautiful.Words are the same. A way of entangling ourselves in memory and experience and dream, to meet and then lose ourselves again in the untangling.
They want numbered instructions, so I arrange pebbles and flower petals into little mandalas inside my heart to show them how numerology works.
Mine will be sure to disappoint you then, circling lazily like a kestrel above a landscape full of sleeping prey. She heard once on TV that the safest place for something in a house fire is inside the oven, because an oven is insulated to keep the heat in and so it’s pretty good at keeping the fire out. If you wanted to salvage something in a house fire ? like say, important financial documents or a family heirloom ? sticking it inside the oven might just work. My dad threw open the oven door to discover the wedding album sitting there on the rack, just starting to crinkle and brown around the edges. Luckily, he pulled it out in time (accompanied by much confused shouting and cursing, I imagine), and none of the photos were lost.Not only does this story capture something exquisitely true about my mother ? her attachment to photographs and mementos of special occasions, her quirky way of problem-solving, her anxiety about fire ? but it seems to me to be deeply human. We want to remember things from long ago, but sometimes in trying to salvage those memories we can become distracted and forgetful in the present moment. Only when it is brought into the light of the present moment can it become something ? a reawakening of mindfulness, a memory stirred to life ? or perhaps only ever a reimagining, each time slightly different, each time new. Nurturing the earth-rooted, sea-soaked, mist-and-mystic spiritual heritage of her Celtic ancestors, she explores themes of peace, poesis and wilderness through essays, poetry and podcasting.

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